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Poems 

AND — 

Miscellany, 

— :by:— 

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(sceo. o^. Baylor. 

PASO BOBLES, CAL. : 

Moon Book and Job Print. 

1890. 


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■^^^^^^^-^-^^-^-^^ 




POEMS 



-AND- 



MISCELLANY 



BY 



5-> 




(sceo. ^. Fayler 







COPYRIGHT 1890 

BY GEO. A. FAYLOR 



All Rights Reserved 



Iprcface. 



TN preseiitinij^ this volume of verse to the American reviewers, 
the author does so conscious of its many imperfections, but 
in the hope that it may possess sufficient merit to offset them. 
"The Lost and the Doomed" properly belongs to a collection 
of juvenile poems. " Recklaw " was written when its author 
ought probably to have had more discretion. If there is in the 
following lines that which will inspire in the reviewer's breast 
a hope for something of genuine merit from this pen, this 
effort will not have been in vain. 

The Author. 
Paso Rohles, Cal. 



THE LOST AND TME DOOMED. 



An Allegorical Poem. 



Far, where Night's dreary empire, lies the 

peopled gulf beside, 
Sad Sorrow, on her gloomy wing, and giant 

Woe, abide. 
For Night no more is. Night beloved on 

every heavenly shore, 
Now o'er the West, her melancholy reign, 

shall brood no more. 
Say further saDl« muse ; still in thy humble 

numbers leJl, 
Where fared the wandering God and how 

the gloomy Goddess fell : 
How mourned for virtue, vanquished, all 

the spirits of the air, 
j!\ nd lied the doomed destroyer, ne'er to 

tarry anywhere. 



PART I. 



I. 

Still sleeps Night's empire by the void 

and silent sleep, 
Her battlements and solemn tower. Far 

o'er the airy deep. 
As lookouts on the sea descry the beacon 

through the storm. 
Her sentries mark the swift approach of a 

celestial form. 
Oft in their weary vigils him the watchers 

once descried, 
Wingless and all buoyant, his career in 

safety guide, 
And oft, the N ight, leaat aleepful, while her 

hosts were slumbrous most. 
Had met him in a guilty tryst, far down her 

dreamy coast. 



He, being a winged messenger, by great 

Aurora sent, 
8aw many realms and various scenes, on 

many a mission bent. 
Long since he met in the abyss and loved 

the sable Night, 
Here steered his wandering course, here 

often rested in his flight, 
And here, to her dark ears he brought the 

gifts she dearest loved. 
But lying tales and worthkss ore at last his 

offerings proved. 
Now had he been long absent, and on 

other amours roved. 
And NiRht, a lengthy round had from her 

tower troubled tried. 
Him to descry; but him nowh«re her dusky 

eye descried, 
Till to her guards he wild appeared. 

Now, yellow haired, ho came, 
But lost to her; and thence she saw him 

passing scornful flame, 
Soon eastward to the deep. Back to return 

no more again. 
She viewed him glide to a twilight on the 

remote champaign, 
And fade into the all-absorbing darkness 

and the plain. 

II. 

Sad Night, with her attendent shades, a 

journey takes. Lorn maid, 
Left by the wandering Sun, and by the 

scorning fiend betrayed, 
In grief , far seeking strays, him o'er the 

distant skies to find, 
And she, o'er distant skies to roam, her 

empire leaves behind. 



THE LOST AND THE DOOMED. 



Forth, from the gates they issue, in a long 

and grand review, 
Across the plains diminish, and at last 

melt on the view. 
On o'er the ititervening plains, and o'er the 

distant deeps, 
The sorrower, majestic, on her fateful 

journey swetps. 
As when, from laurel covert, on some high 

Sierran mead. 
The doe springs, halts, then vanishes with 

still increasing speed. 
Down foresi's ways, the traveler, though 

her form nowhere he find. 
Hath .knowledge of her going in the scent 

she leaves behind : 
So from her footsteps sprang a radiai.ce, 

and a day serene, 
She left, a wake, to mark for gazing worlds 

where she had been. 

III. 

Vast were the fields she traversed, vast the 
fields she left behind. 

When on the East's wide frontier plains, 
her travels 'gan to wind. 

And there, though safe in distance, she the 
vagrant happ'd to find. 

As from the wrath of Justice, the dark out- 
Jaw takes his flight, 

So he, pursued, retreated, still pursuing 
went the Night, 

But far though him she followed, farther 
yet he fled away. 

And back, at last, his flight he bent, to- 
ward regions of the dav. 

Then soon beyond the plains of distance, 
on his way he sped. 

And Darkness closed her deep black gates 
behind him as he fled. 

IV. 
Night, lonely Night, abandoned, is left with 

her shades alone. 
She sighs, a myriad sobs reply, and with 

her plaintive moan, 
A myriad moans awaken in her train. 

She weeps; they grieve— 
Her sorrow is each dark slave's woe. 

And now the weepers leave. 



P\KT II. 



Where to the glittering plain the silken 

gloom falls down in folds. 
And seems black curtain hung behind a 

dawn, East now beholds 
The' invading mouriit rs come. Emerging 

gloom from deeper gloom. 
The wand'rers view a wnndrous scene 

around the heavenly room. 
Here is a golden river, there an emerald 

mead of green ; 
A glancing silver lake, with ruby islands 

lies between. 
Above, a variegated canopy of thousand 

hues is seen. 
Before tnem, veiled in orient mists, Auro- 
ra's cities swim ; 
Seen now i^s desert mirage, vague, dreamy, 

still and dim . 
Irradiant gates, in arches irridescent 

formed of dews 
Perfumed, gird thecelestial kingdom round. 

Love there subdues 
The fierce, nor warders ward, nor warrior's 

gleaming lance, 
Down the long vista rises, e'er the dazzling 

rays to giance. 
Sweet breaths the lazy airs consume, the 

caim.sweetsounds invade. 
With vapors here, and there with clouds, 

fair garden spots are made. 
Refulgent rise the cities in their opulence 

to view, 
A.nd through Aurora's valleys, where no 

follower may pursue, 
Basks in his guilt the messenger. From 

travels, tired, returned. 
He lazily round other suns proud and 

superior burned. 

II. 

A thousand ships T>art from the gates to 
join tlie sable guest, 

Whil.'it welconiing hozannas greet the Em- 
press <.f the West. 

Upon the thousand ships Night embarks 
with all her train, 



THE LOST AND THE DOOMED. 



And in panoply celestial, sails to Aurora's 

reign. 
Slow on ibi' golden river and across the 

isled luke, 
The shipsin far procession, their majestic 

journey take. 
Upon every mast are mounted a myriad 

seraphini, 
And before the gay flotilla schools of i«w- 

elled serpents swim. 
Soft inccnse wafts out to them, as the sea 

is ferried o'er, 
And a living pulse of music throbs to sea- 
ward from the shore. 
But n jt now a6ove the scene, with her crest 

of many a star, 
On the forward ship, that even grnnd Au- 
rora scans afar— 
But not n<.w Nighc wearied stands. She has 

sought a gorgeous bed. 
On the d. ck, the grandest ever for a queen 

and goddess spread. 
And down through the glorious islands of 

the silver-sheening sea, 
Siie is bleeping in a slumber which no more 

shall broken be. 
Still she sleeps, before the multitudes, reach- 
ing like a radiant wall. 
And thf robes they bring to deck her, these 

shall be instead her pall ; 
For thevoiceful hosts that meet her, when 

her stiip is at the shore 
And thcBielodies that hail her— she shall 

see and hear, no more. 
Dead is the great magician, and beside her 

lies the Morn, 
Which, a rosy infant day, on Aurora's sea 

wab born. 



PART 111. 
1. 

High on a radiant throne presiding sate the 
God of Light. 

Obeisant suns were near, and near the life- 
less form of Night, 

More beautiful in death, with solemn rever- 
ence displayed 



(Her 'lorn and mourning shades around), 

in heavenly state was laid. 
Beyond lay towns eternal, more succeeding 

each to sight. 
And in mellow distance sinking, till they 

vanished in their flight. 
Out from every glorious city airy hosts of 

songsters spring, 
And from every plain of distance, mournful 

voices music bring. 
Sadness m the bright air lingered, till o'er 

the distant plain. 
Old withered Time, upon his way, had 

passed before his train. 
Then ceased the heavenly choir, every 

voice was hushed, as one, 
And to his awful throne Aurora called the 

erring Sun. 
Then was brief sentence to the wretch in 

virtuous wrath begun: 
"Jjiesan Alein plain, gloom and alone, be- 
yond the West, 
Where space is all a desert ; there find thee 

a goalless quest. 
H'^rom :hee shall tribes increase, and travel- 
ers curst, they e'er shall be. 
And (comets) in them hells shall live, born 

of, not lost to, thee. 
Now on thy travels, get thee, outcast, gone ! 

and when (she dead) 
Dame Retribution slumbers, then too, rest 

thy weary head." 

II. 

Spurnea by his bright companions, by his 
dullest menials spurned, 

Fast to the void, his footsteps the doomed 
outcast sadly turned. 

Whipt on. he fled ; Remorse's hounds pur- 
sued. Far from the scene 

He passed, and where he haughty was, no 
more his form has been 

III. 
Say whither still, now doomed to roam the 

endless plains of air, 
Thy journey tends? Through hells or what, 

all homeless wanderer? 
Or hast though dropt down voids eternal as 

the thunder leaps 



THE LOST AND THE DOOMED. 



Through awful canyons ;.loud and 

roountain's echoing steeps, 
Unheeding whence, careless whit 

trails untrod of space, 
Her frontiers are, unpeopled and 

for thee to tiace. 
Wind on, thrice-haunted outcast 

even in thv despair — 
Sun fallen, yet unmissed — stray 

hapless murderer. 

IV. 
Now deep-toned thunders, tolling 

distance mournful come, 
Ani o'er the void, profound a fur 

sad takes its roam. 
Faiewells follow the travelers, ra 

riads sob adieu, 
Ani wand'rers of the deep, with ; 

gaze, the sight pursue. 



o'er the 
her? The 
mknown, 
, grander 
on, thoa 

, from the 
eral train 
iiant my- 
iorrowing 



PART IV. 

I. 

Harpers stray o'er the aerial globt , the sky, 

and string sweet lyres, 
That have chords of grand harmony, whose 

reaching strain expires, 
By famished distance drunk. High kindles 

Dusk her signal tires. 
Dark mists do walk among the s.ars that 

look dim ghosts in shrouds ; 
Grand, lordly wanderers, the plan«ts march 

in tribes and crowds, 
As souls that jouiuey to a goj 1 beyond 

Night's dungeon voids. 
And, lo! the moon across the sk/, stalks, 

sheeted in gray clouds. 
There winds the dusty way, and ohere, be- 
yond yon planetoids, 
Thr polar sun, swims with her ata.-ry brood 

upon the sea, 
Whose wave is loined here to the north, 

there to eternity. 

II. 
I shiep, and far upon the road of dreams, 

and far away 
JFrooi scenes like these, I chartless o'tr the 

couatry stray, 



Dead travelers have crossed, nor e'er re- 
turned, nor tidings e'er • 

Sent back to guide upon his way the fol- 
lowing wanderer. 

I am alone, as once was solitary matter 
'lorn 

Down chaos droppod, e'er frcm its pilgriiu 
bulk one world was born. 

Mid calm, as when the infant storzui are 
lulled to transient fcieep 

By hands of hurricanes, that o'er wild harps 
of forests sweep. 

But on the solitude, what strains of melody 
are poured. 

Intoxicating even the solemn gloom? By 
woe abhorr'd, 

Yet nursed in happy joy's sweet choirs, 
charmed silence drinks the tone. 

And dies, as would the darkness rays from 
lamps celestial shone. 

Born of voices seraphic, soon their throated 
souls appear, 

A radiant train of dames translucent, lead- 
ing, far arrear, 

A caravan of formless shades, from sablest 
blackness hewn. 

That bear above their shapeless heads a 
casket, radiance strewn. 

They come — are gone: J^'ar, far they sweep 
upon their grand career, 

And perish from my visiou down the West. 
Yet, faint, I hear, 

A melody, and a dim radiance see: Then 

silent gloom 
And void, a hateful nothing, does usurp 
the happy room. 

III. 

There is no future; the years are not until 
the present born — 

They die, and ride the tide of Time, a with- 
ered dead, out-borne. 

Into the past. There is no future; it is but 
the waste 

Tired worlds must travel, nor on the desert 
hath the pilgrims rest. 

Yet doth the dreamer down the future 
stalk, a ghostly guest, 

At Noctus feast to revek in. a Land witli 
death o'ercast. 



THE LOST AND THE DOOMED, 



Atartoroaui, and live within a second's 

beating life. 
The ;if<onie.s of year.«, ot days the troublous 

strife. 
The million years the earth has trampled 

on, and , buried, left 
Beneath its orbit, might, in a dream, of time 

bereft. 
Be hurried through ten nights. Thus 

though they tied as speeds 
The lightning, springing from its lair, to 

burn the gloom it feeds 
At last its corse, I faster yet pursued and 

paused once more, 
When plains that wandering stars were 

tired to cross were traversed o'er. 
This dark, and then a bolt, as sent to doom 

an erring world, 
Shot from Creation's catapult, passed down 

and forceful hurled. 
Sank through the darkened sea. Its trail a 

yawning wound displayed 
Deep in the darkness breast, that closed 

not, as grave, new made. 
With gapint' lips. Its coming victim waits, 

iV. 

Now breaks a light, 
Far o'er the sable plain, dispelling gloom, 

anil, in their flight. 
The shapes appear, and, singing, pour their 

grand supernal song. 
O'er listening halls and voids and wastes, 

a mighty tide along. 
So sad, so swtet, so beautiful the strains 

are brought to me, 
I lack a million ears to hear their varying 

melody. 

V. 
The gloom retreats, and yet a depthless 

well of gloom remains, 
A solitary darkling spot, on all the radiant 

plains. 

Here pau?e. assemblage heavenly, around 

the dames and shades, 
As would, by welcome well, on desert bleak 

fair pilgrim maids. 



Fair wanderers and slaves, with their 

swart masters pause at eve— 
And as adown their wearv freight, the 

iab'ring camels leave, 
The shades their burden lower. 

VI. 

Fair as the cast of death that sleeps 

Upon the beauty's brow. Night coffined 

seems, while sadly weeps 

Her train of grieving shades. With 

lengthened swell and cadence sweeps 

The myriad voiced anthem o'er the bright 

convex profound — 

It rising wild, now sinking sweet, peoples 

the void around. 

Still hear the raven shades, whilst still the 

I radiant minstrels sing ; 

I Whilst yet along the startled deep, sad 

I threnodies they fiing. 

I Those sadly sing her burial hymn — these 

j raise the glorious night. 

And sobbing, cast her down the gulf — her' 

form has passed my sight. 

So sinks, by loving hands consigned, into 

the expectant wave, 

\ The mariner (His voyage o'er, he finds a 

I stormless grave 

I In Ocean's deep). And (to the mourner 

with a mournful sound) 

I So close the waves, as drew the gloom, the 

buried Night around. 

i 

i VII, 

1 As when farewells of loved ones. who depart 
I which way they will, 

I Have ceased to be, their echoes roll along 
the memory still. 
And then return a vacancy, the joyless 
I plain to fill : 
i So passed the song and shapes away — the 

void became my own, 
I As gathers blackest night around wrecked 
1 wanderers far on 

I Ocean's highway, when beyond the sea the 
silver moon does stray — 
And as the cheerless storm falls on the 
j schoolboy's holiday. 



REeKLAW. 



A Tragedy. 



CHARACTERS. 

Senor Recklaw (Owner of a California j Chic (A saddle-tree maker). 

grant). A Priest. Vaqueros, etc. 

Slade (An adventurer bent on avengin{< i Alice (Daughter of Senor Recklaw). 

the betrayal of his sister). i Marie (Her Maid). 

Pedro (Major Doruo of the Grant). I A Crone (A spirit medium). 



ACT I. 

SCENE I.— A MOUNTAIN TRAIL. 

Slade and Pedro conversing. 

Slade (disguised as a sailor) — You say 
'tis here the grant begins, and to the ranch 
house, how many cables said ycu 'twas? 

Pedro. — Cables are not mentioned on 
our maps. I said three leagues from 
here the ranch house stands; yet as the 
crow tlies 'lis hut one. The mountain, 
though, stands steep, and coated with 
much chapparel. and horses fare but ill 
in making their ascent. 

Slade. — Who owns this grant, you call 
it? Some Spanish caballero? 

Pedro. — No, senor; Americano. Senor 
Recklaw is the rancher called. I am his 
major domo, sup'intendent of the ranch. 
And you? 

Slade. — Me? oh, I am a tramp ashore; 
but afloat as hardy a chap as ever deserted 
from a ship. 

Pedro.— And how came you thus far 
from the big water? Never a ship will wan- 
der here. 



Slade. — G»-anied. Neyer a ship will 
wander here. But sailors are at best 
wild rovers; and weary of the brine, at 
times they long to get their land legs on. 
1 tell you I deserted. Let that be explana- 
tion for you, friend, tor it is a long tale o' 
the sea, and I would rather listen to than 
bore you with it, I'm bound for the big 
city; tbere I'll build me a fu'castie o' the 
shore and deal in pelts and sea ivorv and 
things, as well's liquor tor the sailors, for 
tars stand before a bar as well's before the 
mast, and I can fill their ears with briny 
tales whilst emptying their pockets of the 
scads earned on a, stormy voj'age. But 
this is Greek to you. Tell me «)f yourself, 
and of this Senor Recklaw — a jolly chap, 
I'll wager. 

Pedro. -Senor RecKlaw is ne'er ]olly, 
much grief to me. He wrnps himself in 
melancholy as a serape which he wears, and 
never smiles. I love the old senor, for he 
is kiiid to me; and the senorita, his sweet 
daughter, oh, she is the est/ella, the 
bright star of al! the world. In her he's 
; happy. 

Slade.— Ah, so: a daughter, has he? And 



RECKLAW.— A TRAGEDY. 



11 



he loves the dame. Perhaps to lose her 
would still more his melancholy thicken. 
Is't so? 

Pedro.— To lose her, senor, that would 
be as though the sun would never rise 
again. 'Twould kill him, and he'd sleep 
beside the Senor ToUes whose grave is by 
the pine upon the backbone of the ridge. 
Ah, no ; blest he the Virgin ! she must never 
go. Why said you that, senor? Know you 
aught that her endangers? 

Slade.— Oh, calm your weather, ship- 
mate; I was thinking on the crew I left 
behind and how they missed me. I won- 
dered ii ashore people were made of the 
same stuff. 

Pkdro. — I like not such remark. We 
love the senorita, and if harm befell her, 
all would grieve. 

Slade. — How came this Senor Recklaw 
to the grant? Dost remember how? ; 

Pedro. — No more than that he came. I 
Four years — si, five — five winters since he j 
came, and with him the Estrella. the sen ir- 1 
it;i. i 

Slade. — You know not from what port 
he hailed? 

Pedro. — Nothing more. But why ask ' 
you? j 

Slade. — Oh, an idle passion, shipmate. I 
had a captain once named Recklaw. I loved j 
him much for the way he put rings on my 
thumbs when he triced me up. If this 
were him, I'd like to visit him. Does he 
talk much o' the sea ? 

Pedro. — Never of the sea senor, and little 
of the land ; bnt from the senorita I have 
learned he once was of the East. \ 

Slade. — We 11, 'tis not him. But this is 
interesting to a land-locked tar I see the 
sun is going to anchor, shipmaie, and I'll \ 
not longer keep you from your cruise. Do, 
you tack o'er the hills or by some channel 
round about? 

Pedro. — By level trail. The mountain 
does not for riding in the dusk. And you; 
where will you pass the night? It is too far. 



or the ranch house would give you wel- 
come. 

Slade. — The woods are good enow for me. 
I've slept at sea in open boat, and, aloft, 
dozed on a night becalmed. With my tar- 
paulin for a bunk I'll snore like a fog horn. 
And, blast their tarry toplights, if the bears 
come snuffing of my heels I'll climb their 
riggin' and slit their windpipes amazin'. 

Pedro. — 1 know not how they kill the 
bears at sea; but here they're dangerous. 
And, besides, the ground grows cold when 
ihe moon ^ets past the mid of night. Be- 
yond the ford, but half a league, lives Chic, 
the saddie-tree maker. He will give a wel- 
come to you. 

Slade. — Perhaps 'twere better I ftud his 
cabin. 

Pedro. — Beneath the cliflFs. You cannot 
escape it. So, buen trip, senor. My horse 
is here, I go, Adios! 

1 Exeunt 

Slade.— Now, this is well. I am a sailor. 
I'd rather he were someone else than Pe- 
dro, for he has a damned bad eye, and bad 
eyes in men are worse than even bad 
tongues in women. But his information is 
a bonanza to my fund. This is the same 
Recklaw, and he has a daughter. That is 
well. If he lose her 'twill kill him. Better 
still. Then he will die by degrees. 'Tis 
not to be feared that this thick-headed 
vaquero would know me again and it seems 
not the better programme now to be a sailor 
longer, though I'll to this Chic's rancheria 
and pump him for more facts, then throw 
off my disguise and enter upon the game. 
Recklaw, a serpent is on thy trail. I'll 
drink at thy expense, and the liquor shall 
be — revenge ! 

[Exeunt. 
Enter Makia. 

Maria. — Tis a strange thing to see a sail- 
or here. And how he talked ot some re- 
venge. He must be a madman from off the 
sea. I heard what he conversed with 
Pedro, and good grounds I see for knowing 
he mv master seeks. Ah, could he hate him 



RKCKLAW. — A TRAGEDY 



:is 1 hate, he'd dream upon it. But Pedro 
now is far enough awav — I'll niouui: and 
follow. yomethiiiK may come of this. 

\E.nLnit. i 

SCEiNE 1I.-GH1C'8 UABIN. 
CHIC avd SL.\DE conn rsim/. 

Slade (still disguised).— You seldom have 
visitors in this climate, have you. mate? 

Chic— Oh, infrequent. 'Tis far out here. , 
But never «f ionesonieness I sufier. The: 
parrot here talks much and sometimes ; 
comes the vaauero, to buy of Chic the ; 
macarte and the bridle-rein and the saddle- 
tree. And sometimes comes the Estrella. 
the senorita, from thegrant. ()h,itisnever 
lonesome. 

Slade, — The parrot is a noble bird. Is he 
a Spaniard ? 

Chic. — A sailor bird ; comes from the sea ; 
oh, many vear ago — six year. But he too 
much blasohemes. He swear vera mucha. 

Slade. — Then he's a mate o' mine. He's 
no land lubber, eh? 

Chic. — ISo. he's a parrot. I no sabe lub- 
ber. He look like him ? 

Slade. — No, no ; you don't catch ray drift. 
Land lubbers are the people o' the shore — 
land crabs we call 'em. He's a bird o' the 
sea. Does he sing? 

Chic — He sing sometime like a sailor 
dnauk . He's the oracle. He say it rain, it 
rain, sure. When he swear much bad luck 
is coming. He swear to-day all day. 1 
take him the spring and duck him good ; 
but he swear more. When you come now 
he hear you, he swear, oh, frightful, fright- 
ful I He listen now, bimeby he swear again. 
Bad luck coming, stranger — bad luck, sure. 

Slade. — There's little in this :hing o' 
luck, old man. I've seen the rats go off a 
leaky ship and the old tub weathered a gale 
that would o' sunk a man-o'-war. And I've 
sailed o' Fiiday in the worst storm that 
ever churned outside the heads, and struck 
clear weather for a year o' cruise. 'Ti.s a 
weakness in the brain o' the bird that makes 
him i?wear. 



( Hic. — Maybfso, maybtso; but always 
when he .swear bad luck wil^ come. He 
swear when Senor Tolles ride bv one night, 
and the senor found by the trail dead at 
morning. And ever he swear, just the 
SHiiic— bad luck, bad luck. 'Tis m. decep- 
tion, senor. He's oracle. The bird is 
ominous, sure. 

Slade.— You say Tolles died by the trail. 
Was he killed? 

Chic— Si, senor. Fell off his horse — his 
neck broke. 

Slade. — And who then bought his ranch? 

Chic— Senor Recklaw, he bought it. He 
CDme from the east somewhere, and his 
daughter come, too. Tliesenorita — Estrella 
we call her. She an angel, s*»nor. Once, 
when I lay tiere. oh. mucha sick, fihe come 
and nurse the old man. I no die, I live; 
she pull nie through. 

Slade. — You think much of her, eh ? 

Chic — Senor, she the stars at night; and 
if she was not here again, the day would be 
as if the storm tell always. 

Slade. — It does me good to hear of the 
sweet dame. I'd like to have you o' the 
fo'castle on a calm to tell the lads of this fair 
paragon. They'd forget their grog a listen- 
ing. Go on, old \ix^, is she light or dark? 
She's fair, 1 know, i don't fancy her color, 
and she's short and stout; more against 
her. If I had time I'd lose a ship length o' 
niy voyage to get a glimpse of her; bu: I 
must hurrj' oft" your range early the mo'*- 
row. So I 11 remember her as you say she 
looks. Bl<<w away , mate. 

Chic— Ah, Chic is glad to see the sailor 
appreciate. But you should see. To look 
ather is never to forget. She is not as you 
say, fair, nor stout. She's dark— black eyes, 

! hair as the night in a storm, and form, ah, 
exquLsite. But 'tis the soul, senor; the 
mind, whicti makes this star of earth to 
shine most admirable. Her mind is as the 

{ Mother above. She next the Virgin Maria, 
perfect. 

Sladk.— She must be very fair. No won- 



RECKLAW. — A TRAGEDY. 



13 



der the old man loves his child. If he 
sh(>nld \o>e htr perhaps he'd iiiourii his 
life away, eh ? 

Chic — A.1), yes; but 'tis iiu possible. - ^he 
cannot so soon die — so youne. so g;ood No 
fear, senor. She'll live to comfort her old 
Padre. He a good father, too. Oh, a very 
good man, Senor Recklaw. 

Slade. — He's rich they say. 

Chic. — Very much rich. Immense in 
wealth, Tht- grant, six leagues—and cattle 
and stock — he never can count tliem. 

Slade. — ' Tis nice to be rich thus — rich in 
a beauteous child and rich in purse. if he 
but have an easy c nscience, that night- 
n-ares blacken not his dreams, he is a happy 
man. Think you his conscience light? 
Somehow methought a rumor went that 
he seemed gloomy, as if some deed he'd 
done nat ijtavy on his soul. Smiles he 
ever? 

Chic. — No; never smiles the old senor. 
Perchance son.e deed he's done. Who 
knows? Sometime vaqueros tell me stopping 
here tn speak of thiiigs, that in his dreams 
off, he cries ^ut and much disturbs the 
rnnch. Sotue ghost they tnink, walks at 
his bed. But 1 ktiow not of this myself. 

Slade. — Perhaps its but an idle tale. But 
'tis growing lateand time we werea-bunk, 
I'd sleep like death to-niuht if 'rwere but in 
the glory hole of some slave-trading scow, 
mv tramp has tired me so. I may out in 
the morning at last watch, and 'f I be 
agone when you come to, don't miss me. 
Now. I'll say good bye. We'll both dream 
we are ashore, to-night; eh, old senor? That 
is a pleasant dream to .Tack at sea. If the 
parrot swear to-morrow, duck him again, 
old man. Ill turn in now. Good by. 

(Jhic. — Buen dreams! Good night! 

[Sl.\de lies o'l (t coach and Chic sits before 
the fireplace and nods. 

SCENE III.— THE HACIENDA, 

.4 large room with open grate— Alice and Senor 
Recklaw conversing. 
Alice. — leather, 'tis now fivevears since 



we came hither, l^'ive weary, dreary years 
they seem to me. You know I've borne 
with patience its seclusion for your sake, 
though why you should thus seek to immo- 
late yourself in these far barren wilds 1 
ne'er could see. You said it would not be 
for long we'd have to stay; that you were 
overwrought with business and would lose 
that gloomy mantle from your mind, when 
for awhile you left those scenes behind. But 
gloomier you grow. It is this isolation. If 
you were where society was bright you'd 
soon be like yourself again. 

S. Recklaw. — My child, I know I do you 
wrong, and seriously I think of soon re- 
turning to society. But I most dread this 
is a settled melancholy that hath ta'en a 
seat upon me. I cannot shake it off. It is 
away at day, but in the night it comes 
again. Yet 'tis only the fffect of overtax- 
ing my capacities — a bad derangement of 
the mind. I spake but yesterday with a 
traveler passing by, who knows a market 
for the grant, and it this does effect a sale, 
we'll go back to more pleasant scenes. Now 
rest assured and go to vour peaceful couch. 

Alice — And do you to your rest, father. 
Thus sitting, poring over the fire, fills up 
vour mind with strange phantasms, and 
hallucinations, till in your dreams you see 
repeated what grew out of the dying 
coals. So this disturbs your sleep. Go now 
to slumber. 

[Kiases him. 

And may vour dreams be sweet. Good 
night. 

[Exeunt. 

S. Recklaw —Good night, sweet girl. The 
shapes of hell that torture me should not 
pollute the air which thou hast breathed. 
Pure soul I Little thou knowest the phan- 
toms that sleep does conjure up for me. 
Not out of d\ ing coals such shapes e'er 
emanate. They are of hell, and of more 
infinite horrible form than thou couldst 
realize. And I commune with these whilst 
thou of angels dream. Such is the abyss 
between me and thy soul. I would not 
ever sleep if I could always wake, but 



14 



RECKLAW. — A TRAGEDY. 



abstinence too great from slumber is but a 
gloomy prelude to worse visions. So 1 

must sleep. 

[.•1 kn'^ckatthe. d*or. 

[Some one knocks — come in. 
Entei- Slade. 

Welcome sir to my humble rancheria. 
You are late on the road. 

Slade. — Many thanks, I have been some- 
what belated. I've ridden many miles to- 
day, and could not easily find the ranch- 
house. But it is all the more to be enjoyed 
now that 'tis found. 

S. Recklaw.— Just so. I was but now 
thinking of retiring. But you must have 
something to break your fast. I will show 
you to thequarters.,and you'll find such as 
we have at your disposal. Then do yow 
please return, and rest awhile, with me. 

Slade,— You well sustain the repute of 
your people's hospitality. It is world 
wide. 

S. Recklaw. — You are thnce welcome. 

Come, if you please. 

\ExeHnt. 

SCENE IV. -THE SAME. 
Enter S. Recklaw 

S. Recklaw.— That face— 'lis hers. The 
same eyes— a like expression ; i see it 
nightly in my dreams, and now he wears 
it. Were he herself he could not more be- 
come those lineaments. Hath hell contriv- 
ed a new conceit to torture me? But, no: 
'tis only my imagination. A mere conci- 
dence — he does resemble her only as I con- 
ceive of it ; for she has grown in every bush 
to me and haunts the verv sunbeams i' the 
day, I'll be more brave and live down this 
too-growing fancy. 'Tis but the cowardice 
of mind which, taking root, hath spread its 
branches to my horizon. I'll live it down. 
Inter Slade. 

Sir, I hope you have fared well. 

Slade. — Never better. The appetite, horn 
of a pure, dry air and temperance gives 
sauce wl ere sauc3 is lacking, and to thy 
luncheon I have paid respect, than which 
revellers give not more to their feasts. 



S. Recklaw. — Half of our life lies in gastro- 
nomv. The other half divide3*'twixt .^leep 
and the waking imagination. 

Slade. — Waking imagination said you 
well. For our sleepy imav:inatiou seems 
not a part of life but travels us in land of 
goblins. 

S. Recklaw. — Of that I can speak like a 
miner, for I have been in that hole myself. 
Did dreams trouble vou ever? 

Slade, — Much once; but I have left them 
ail behind. It is mind weakness to court 
them, and who courcs them not they will 
abandon. 

S. Recklaw.— Then I must be their flat- 
terer, for I Lave found them in mv slum- 
bers years past. 

Slade.— S' em they genial comrades or 
villains with you? 

S. Recklaw.— The shades of a de. p mel- 
ancholy. They cloud mv days, and my 
uneasy nights illumine. They are afore- 
time and atteninn- weird haunters of my 
existence. 

Slade.— It is because thou thinkst on 
gloomy images. Thou'rt unhappy and brood 
on it. 

S. Recklaw. — I brood, 'tis fact, for 
whether from this, or whether we're born 
to brood, mv days are inhabited with im- 
materialized and wavering shades. 

Slade.— Canst thou not purge thy mind 
of this melanch'ly pha^e, and think the 
sun shines when it shine.'i? 'Tis time 
enough for gloom when night is un, or 
when eclipses shade the earth; but when 
it'i day, what God ly blesseci as man? 
Ease thy mind of this dull train of thought 
and count thyself to sleep, or think on 
pleasant things. 1^'air preface to a night 
means happy dreams. 

S. Recklaw.— Thy words are fair enough 
and thy philosophy will hold water; but 
one thing is to think, it is another thing to 
act. 

Slade. — Thv mild insomnia is a small 



RECKLAW.— A TRAGEDY. 



15 



disease. But Hud the physic for it and 'tis 
cured. 

8. Recklwv. — A.y. but this physic cctues 
not Irom herbs, nor from the laying on of 
hands. Nor yet from faith in healing. We 
must go in tlie ground to takn this cure. 

Slade.— Oh, tut! The ills which death 
alone can cure are sprung of love in stories. 
Thou'rt bearded wrong to be so ailing. Go 
muse on (oy prescripti )n and think thy- 
self to sleep with pleasant thoughts. 
Thou'itsee no delirium bugs then in thy 
dreams. And I'll precede vou if it please 
you. toreposp; for i am as sleepy as an ill- 
paid watchman on his beat. 

S. Recklaw.— I'll show thee to thy couch. 
Thy room shall be the next to mine, and if 
thou hear'st me disturbed in slumber do 
you kindly waken me. 'Tis my mind o'er- 
taxed that giveth birth to this black npst of 
shapes. I'll try thy remedy. Come! 

[Exeunt. 



ACT II. 

SCTSNE I.— A FOREST NEAR THE HA- 
CIENDA. 

Enter SLADE 
Slade: — What once suspicion made most 
sure 
.■Substantial facts now verify. 
He is the Recklaw that he was. 
My star of destiny attends 
In this adventure. It hath brought 
Him to my range, and working still 
Throws me athwart his bows. Not chance 
Could thus have placed him in my power. 
He is a doomed and a damned subject 
Of the miracle called perverse fate. 
Last night I stood beside his couch 
And heard him when in dreams 
Hot-hand- d demons held him high 
O'er hell and threatened him with a drop. 
But he escaped into a black 
And dismal night, and then he fled, 
Pursu«d by nothing but his fears. 
Again he was on earth, and there 



'I he vision of a woman wronged 

Stood out before him, and he saw 

Unearthed, the dead he lightly damned 

When life was Springtime with him. 

She was a beauteous vision to him; 

She changed into a horrid hag 

And mocked him with her toothless gums 

And bony fingers, till he fled again. 

Then last, he viewed her face, as 'twere, 

Renewed in mine, and shrieked ana woke. 

I told him he but muttered then. 

And calmed him, though 'twould have 

been sweet 
As life itself to've killed him there. 
Yet he's saved for worse than shambles. 
Let me review the scene that's here, 
That it may be not cool '^ day: 
I had a sister; she a brother 
Had. Say i, he was steep'd in crime. 
But she was pure, and so unstained, 
And being pure, it follows that 
Who wreck'd her was ev'n a pirate. 
Now she was made an orphan soon 
And so was I. I was shipped here 
To learn bad ways, but she, per form, 
Was made a daughter to a man 
Who taught her some accomplishments. 
Sue grew more fair and beautiful 
Than lily afield, and as sweet 
As mignonette, till he who was 
Her guardian did give way to lust, 
And did a wrong he'd ne'er repair, 
Then turned her on the world to die. 
He fled his conscience to this wild ; 
But here, eyen here, the voice pursues. 
'Twas long ago I learned the tale 
And long I have his retuge sought. 
1 came to tell him of his crime 
And then to slay him for't. But now 
Another phase comes up — To kill. 
Is but to rob a man of nothing. 
Dead he feels not what he loses; 
For being dead he knows not he is dead. 
Then follows it that this revenge 
Would thwart. But if he losses aught 
And lives to know his loss, then is 
He robbed indeed. Sol attend 
Myself and hearken to apian, 
A perfect plan, which has not been 
Matured for naught. What he once did. 



16 



RECKLAW. — A TKAGEDY. 



Now I will do, though hnll does yawn, 
And worlds frown at ine d'reful deed. 
I'll wreak upon his daughter whnt 
He on my sister wrought. I'll win 
The love of this sweet aame, and with 
Her love, I'll draw the fatal bc^w 
Which shall rain shafts of vengeaTice down 
Upon him. It is well thought out. 

[Exfunt. 



SCENE 11. 



-ANOTHER P. 
F0RE8T. 



KT (W THE 



Enfrr Sl.ADE and Senor Rfx'KLAw. 

S. Rkcklaw: — 'Tis pleasant sight 

To see a new face here, recent 
From civilizatio!!. Too much 
Of rest makes mun a restless worm. 
And here we get too much of 't. 
Without congenial associates. 
'Tis as the food 'thout condiments 
Or vanetv, that satiates 
And galls the appetite. There is 
Even a rapidity in rest 
Which urges lagging pac-, and prods 
The slumbering brain to a purpose, 
Without purpose : 'tis as a chase 
Without the goal. I wish lo speak 
With you on diverse things, and so, 
I 've sought you out. 

Slade: — I listen, senor, your servant. 

S. Recklaw: — My sleep, then was last 
night 
Rounded up with unusual dreams 
That bode no good, I fear. For dreams, 
When formed not of a tangible 
And real indigestion, have 
Prescience in them. Overfed 
Nightmares may prance ofi thin air 
And find birth in fat suppers; 
But what shall we say of the shaoes 
Which come and sit upon us out of night 
And with some occult vision say 
What is to be? Perhaps f speak 
In riddles to you? 

Slade;— Not at all. 
1 attend your speech, and answer 
This: Dreams are of t from stomachs 
Formed, and do rise from ill digest 



Of meal ; but as the beam dotti br^eak 
An interveiiifig object ; so 
Ttie mind i., turnea on trifles oft. 
! We (ireaui awake and sleeping dream — 
I Each is a dream . When we d( > wish 
Some vision into shape awake. 
That is a dream ; likewise, asleep 
Some waking part of this machine 
Of mind does conjure up some tale, 
i Ami after, forgetting how it cam^^, 
We, waking, marvel at the occult. 
Thy dreams are imagery, 

S. Recklaw:— Would 'twere so. 
But so much to me comes to stiow 
That they're inspired, 1 cannot think 
Them only dreams. Listen my dream: 
Slade. — I listen. 

S. Recklaw:— Meihoutiht. last night, 

{ alone I stood 

j Upon a lones'ine plain. 'Twas dark — 
I say 'twas more than dark; for ne'er 
Such blackness hung o'er earth 
Before. I i'new not «s here I was 

I More than I stood on earth. A sound 

■ Rose round me, as though swpetest strains 
E'er born of music upon earth 

Had there condensed and issued forth 

In one combined harmony. 
, They soothed me as aromatic 

Opiate might, and I lost sense. 

In time, 1 woke again, and now 

'Twas gloomy still; but I was not 

On earth. I seemed sustained in air. 
: The music still attended there. 

Anon, the gloom to twilight {)as8ed. 

And then irradiance, as from 

A hidden sun poured round about. 

By this 1 viewed a city bung 

■ In air, and into it I nassed. 
Was this a dream ? 

Slade. — Go on. 
S. Recklaw.— This city then 
Was of a thousand beauteous gates. 
And mansions grander than poet 
E'er dreamt d reached throu^jh aii space. I 

gazed 
Intoxicated witli the view; 
I But It nor yet the music 
Perpetual, gave surfeit aye. 



RECKLAW.— A TRAGEDY. 



17 



I was possessed of appetite 
i^'it to drink sacb bliss forever. 
Seems this a dream? 

8ladk;— A gilded nightmare 
Rather. But proceed. 

8. Kecklaw. — There 1 stood, 
And viewed a clouded canopy 
Of hues mure manifold than those 
That fret the burning sundown sky. 
And a.s I looked I deemed, betimes 
That something seemed some form, and 

ti)en 
By metitmorphosis that form 
Immediate It was. Fair girls 
I thus brought into shape, and, too, 
Friends who were dead, and loved ones 

gone 
For years and years. 1 strayed along 
The gold-paved streets alone, for here 
No tenant nor inhabitant 
I saw. At last I stopped before 
A temple richer than the sum 
Of tliH ethers. Twas the paragon 
And essence of ail beauty and 
Magnificence", i enter* d there. 
Me and my cloud of melody. 
For this on me attended still. 
The walls kaleidoscopic scenes 
Presented, which gave me new thrills 
Of pleasure. A gallery stood 
Above, and it I entered soon. 
Then Jiad [ company. 

8la^e: — This was 

A dream within another dream. 

S. Recklaw: — Listen. Around this fairest 
room 
Were fairer maids a scure, and they 
Were beauteous in proportion as 
Their sphere. None offered seac to me 
But left me there to stand within 
Their circle. A withered crone 
At li4st came in, who had wound round 
About her form a ."trpent, big 
But beauteous. The dames then sang, 
The crone a dirge did chant, the snake 
Unwound his myriad folds, and went 
With open jaws and striking tang 
Around thn awful gallery. 
At last he came to me and took 



Me in his lovely rope. I felt 

The hot breath from his jeweled throat 

Upon my cheek, and it inhaled. 

Then changed he form, and was a man, 

Of mighty build and black as gloom. 

Even as I gazed on him the scene 

Changed, and I viewed, where were thefalr 

And radiant maids, a train of hags. 

The gallery was a livid hell. 

Slade:— Now was thy nightmare at a 
trot. 

S. Recklaw: — I thought to shriek; my 
voice was lost 
In a dull whisper. I could move 
Nor hand nor limb. This negro, then, 
Me lifting, as waves lift ships. 
Hurled me far out in the deep, red 
Abyss of flame. I sank into 
That hellisti tire, .forever ceased 
Whilst conscious yet, down thro' the flames 
To fall. At last oblivion came 
And blotted out my flight. 

Slade: — 'Twas an inconstant dream. 
Thy cook mixed up too many stuffs 
And viands in thy supper, else 
Thou wuuldst not have experienceo 
Such diverse sensation. 

S. Reck:— I cannot think 

Such dreams are born of earth. Before 
Have I had a presentiment 
In like horrid shape, and methinks 
This hath a reveled skein of much 
And various import. If thou. 
With thy philosophy (tor seems 
Thy wisdom some) canst make naught of it, 
I'll take this troubled dream of mine 
To the old hag, who hereabout 
Is sibyi to the inhabitants. 
She hath full well interpreted 
Deep dreams before. What says my guest? 

Slade-— 'Twas the brat of indigestion. 
The world may be a dream, and life 
A nightmare, for we are so poor 
In that which makes a fact that we, 
Though living, cannot say we live. 
Yet such fastidious and fantastic 
Tale hath fabric in it which makes 
It certain that who dreamed it was 



18 



RKCKLAW.— A TRAGEDY. 



ISot all asleep 

I'll tell a dream, 
Which happed to me. 'Tis but a dream, 
A sleeping dream, 'thoutgilt and with 
No rich embellishment. 'Tis puch 
A gaudy dream as Christmas feast 
Creates when crowing cock half wakes 
The drowsy reveller. Now hear. 

S. Recklaw :— I'll tiear it to the end. 

Blade:— Then thou'rt 

Polite and courteous, for with it 
I've talked to snoring many a guest. 
When I was host in distant home. 

8. Recklaw:— I could list' to the recital 
Of strange dreams from now till never, 
8uch fasination they do hold 
For me. Go on, I listen. 

Slade:— Then this is it: 

Once when I slept, methought I passed 
From living to another sphere 
(I'll be as brief and circumspect 
As 'tis pleasant). There w^re no homes 
Upon this globe, and nothing came 
To view, save, distant but a mile, 
A woody grove, an oasis. 
For desert was the rest. I paused. 
Long contemplating the wild scene, 
Which grew more wild, as lone.'ome, then 
Methought the nightcame on the hill. 
And soon it would be dark. 
80, starting toward the grove I sped, 
Wishing for shelter from such night. 
And from, perchance, what horrors were 
Indenizen there. The gr-.ve I reached 
At last upon the verge of night. 
Within it wasthe gapiner mouth 
Of a dark cave, whose bowels reached 
Deep 1' the earth. 'Twas guarded weil— 
On one side high a demon stood, 
Steeled in rich mail and iron-faced. 
The other did a dwarf protect. 
Unarmed and pleasant visaged he. 
I spoke to each , and each to me 
Turned mute, immobile face, nor word 
Vouchsafed me when 1 spake again . 
Then I, to escape the night, even if 
Into a deeper night, made pass 
To probe the weakly dwarf's entrance. 
He forced me back with such an ease. 



As might a giant use to break 
A straw. Then to the demon s part 
I strode, and when b^ did conf/ont 
Me with a huge topped spear, I struck 
Him forceful telow, and o't-r his fallen 
And senseless form stepped to the cave, 
'Twas black within ; but far ahead ' 
A myriad twinkling light<^ came up 
To view, and for thoi>e stars 1 steered. 
At last I reached a roomy vault. 
Where there were many women round, 
At various employments, but 
The most did sing. 
S. Recklaw: — 'Tis such a dream 
I I love to hear told of. Proceed, 
Slade: — They sang of love, 
S. Recklaw: — As it was meet they.should. 
Love is their meat. 

Slade-— I *ay, ibey sangofiove. 

A beauteous dame, who, towering, stood, 
By virtue of her beauty, o'er 
All thech ir. espying me, gave 
Beck that I should join her 
At her throne. There 1 went and sat 
Me at hi r glorious feet, and heard 
The glorious song. This ended, they 
Dispersed, and all came silent then. 
S. Recklaw: — A marvelous dream. 
Slade:— Most marvelous what 

Remains to tell. When pressed to speak 
Upon her history and condition, 
The beauteous queen replied, thus wise; 
There they incelled were a time. 
To purge their worldly .souls for loss 
Of virtue upon earth. Each was 
A sufferer in this cause. They all, 
Repentant, there wept for the past, 
Aud on betrayers curses heaped. 
Her tale resumed, to me she told 
That she once was an orphan left. 
And in that stale, adopt by law. 
Passed to the hearth of one who was 
Graced with much wealth. 

S. Recklaw: If you are tired 

I'll hear that dream at other time. 
'Tis a fair dream ; but morning wanes 
And noon comes on. Would you not be 
More pleased to rest? 



RECKLAW.— A TRAGEDY. 



19 



Slade: — 'Tis almost told. 
I'd rather jjive t all out now. 
This man of wealth, I dreamed she said, 
Did compass her with all comforts, 
" fill she passed the sweet equator 
Where woman's latitude begins ; 
Atid rhen. most horrid to relate. 
He did betray her. and crush out 
The young tlower of her life. She went 
To wander in the world and died. 
Of shame, of very grief she died. 
That was a vivid di-eam. was't not? 

S. Recklaw: — As lightning on a storm. 
Was this a very dr^aui ? 

Slade:— Avery sleeping dream, 

I do assure you. Was it not 
Amoral nightmare? 

8. Recklaw: — Excuse me, but 

It grows most dull — we'll hear the end 
Ai other time, i have forgot 
A duty which I soon would do. 
Thru may'st here stay awhile, 
And I'll return anon. 8pare me. 

Slade: — Oh, if you will. 

But at another time the rest 
Thou'it hear. I kuow ttiou'lt grow most 

fond 
Of it at last. 

S. Recklaw: — Do U'tr miss me. 

Slade: — Not I. I am thy servant, 

And these birds shall sing for me till 

Thou dost return. 

[Exit Recklaw. 

Now did I hit 
The demotiin his soul and made 
The brute to wince. How he did pale 
And shaky grow. I'll tell therest 
And balance of thatdr»am to him 
When it is meet. Methinks its dirge 
Will singinto his ear till night 
And day rise up and set for hiru 
No more. Its impress on his brain 
I'll make till even the worms and bug 
That to his carcass inlierit 
Shall traces find of the black tale 
There i' the grave. 

Oh, nian. that hath 
A mind to reason with, how void 
Of reason a- 1 thou ! In passion. 



How like a ship in storm, chartless. 

Thou art. at once, the hunter and 

Tht-prey. But he's my game and him I'll 

follow. 

Though burning hell both him and me may 

swallow. 

\Exit. 



SCENE 111.— A ROOM 
HACIENDA 



IN THE 



j Enter Maria. 

I Maria : — I wish i had been born a man, 
j ^or half my life is filled with frights, 
j Half with waiting to be 'frighted, 
And only a quarter has peace. 
The other quarter is half crammed 
With dread of lashings or with fear 
! Or something worse. In short, ray fears 
I Stick me like needles every day, 
I'd trade 'em for a quick conscience 
With the first pack peddler happ'ningby 
If pack peddlers had conciences. 
But could I be a man — ah, then 
I'd fear nothing. I'd mount a horse 
And take a rifle, and ride roads, 
And steal girls, and rob stages, and then, 
I'd take o'd senor Recklaw's self, 
Bones, ills and all, to my deep cave 
And cutout his tongue and burn him. 
For having me whipped. And Pedro, 
Who plied the lash, I'd ^urn his eyes 
Set him in the darkest corner. 
And give him a bright light to read 
His thoughts by. There's Jingo the cook- 
He called me a wench; he's a nigger. 
I'd kill him for my luck. Mistress 
Alice I'd steal away, and lay her 
Down on some bright island; sLe is 
An angel, though I do say it. 
Hating the devil, her father 
As I do. There is Chic— I'd save 
Him to make all my saddle trees. 
And his parrot should teach me oaths , 
For he swears, a credit to him 
Who was- his teacher. I would call 
Him Polly, and he'd be my luck. 
No; killing the nigger'd be luck. 
Enough luck for anybody. 
Then I'd steal a husband, some one 



20 



RECKLAW.— A TRAGEDY. 



Like the handsoaie traveler, hiiu 

Who came last night. Then happy me. 

Here mistress comes, and ri9:bt now 

I think were I a man, herself 

I'd wed, and not be land pirate, 

After all. 

Enter Alice. 

Alice:— Maria are you here? 

Maria.— Yes, mistress, for 1 am afraid 
To be elsewhere. 

Alice : — Well , what is the matter now ? 

Maria : — I've seen a ghost last night. 
. Alice: — A ghost? Silly maid there are 
none. 

Maria :— That there are none 
Will not convince one who views them. 
I saw my ghost, and he had an eye 
Built like a moon, and just as large, 
And he was bigger than the butt 
Of any tree, and had on all white. 

Alice: — Where did you see this thing? 

Maria: — I won't say where, mistress. 
My back is sore from the last lash 
I got, and if my fool tongue talks 
And gets my hack in further scrape. 
Why my back will get its back up. 

Alice: — What nonsense do vou t.^lk. 
Say where you saw this thing and how. 

Maria: — With my eyes was how, 
And in the hacienda where. 
Now, sweet mistress, there's all of it. 

Alice:— You do try patience 
8ay what you saw. 

Maria: — And you'll not let them fiog 
of me? 

Alice : — Not if your trifiing cease. 

Maria: — Then in your father s room it 
was. 
Listen at mid of night an owl 
Sat in a pine outside my room, 
And hooted melancholy there, 
As is some evil spirit stirred 
His rest. It wakened me, and 
I did listen soft, and then— 

Alice:— Well, foolish, and then— 

Maria:— And then — 



Alice : — Will you be sensible for once ' 

Say what this was. * 

Maria: — And thm, mistress, 

I heard your father shriek , as one 

Who might a devil clutch. 1 'rose 

And peered out from tny chamber. 

And I saw the ghost, mistress. Never, 
\ Oh, never 1 can ileep again ; 
' Alice: — Where was this? 
j Maria:— In your father's room. 

The door stood 'jai ; the moon a pale 
! And saddened light cast through the pane. 

1^'looding his couch. This spook stood there. 
: A shape most gaunt ami horrible, 

In its hand a blade I }«aw. 

Seemed it the glio>^t would stat) - 
' Your father, wnd l tried to shriek. 

But my tongue stood tied in my mouth. 

I could not but Kaze steadfast. 

And then your father, misires.s, woke. 

And with the ghost did speak. 'Twas then 

I swooned and fainting fell and lay 

Till morning on the stony flour. 

Alice: — This was a quick distempered 
, dream 

Say nothing more of it, 
Maria: — Not I. 

} Mv back says to be mum. 

Maria: — Did vou dream aught t-lse? 
Maria: — Not last night sweet mistress; 

But this morning when fast awake 

I dreamed a handsome strat)ger came 

And stayed awhile I viewed hiui cast 

Fond glance at you, when you passed out, 

To walk in the garden near. 

His glance spoke of soft flaiMH, I thought. 

Alice: — You are a foolish maid. 
Still, jou may mark his further glance. 
'Twill keep v<'U from worse mischief. Now 
Call my father to meal. Tis noon. 

[Exeunt Maria 

Alice:— Something upon my fathers life 
Treads like a shadow, it is iure. 
But what it is I ne'er could tell. 
His sleep is often thus disturbed, 
Until mean rumors are afloat. 
And 'mong the ignorant drivers 



RECKLA-Vf.— i. TRAGEDY. 



21 



And the herders pass tales that he«is 

A sorcerer, and seances 

Holds with the dead. This is a strange 

Thing which Maria tells. And there 

Must be more to it than nothing. 

Something she saw. but what it is. 

Who knows? Ah, my poor sad father, 

What can be this rude fate of thine, 

Which even I must not know of? 

J fear thou sayest true, it is 

A settled melancholy. They're 

Ot the earth unearthy, scenes 

That haunt thy slumbers and 

Possess thy waking hours. I feel 

A presage rising up in me 

That something dire will fall on thee. 

Which naught from me can e'er o'ercome. 

But what e'er may befall , let me 

Thy doom sbare with thee. Thou'rt io me 

All that there is of earth. Without 

Thee the world were blank, and pleasure 

Void of ioy. I'll pray again for thee, 

[Exeujit. 

8CENE IV.-THK HUT OF THE CRONE 
Enter S.Recklaw 

S. KECKLAW.— Good day Senora. 

Crone:— 'Tis theSenor. 

S. Reck:— It is. I have come to test 
The knowlt dge which, if rumor's truth 
Thou hast of things unearthly. Say 
Canst thou uuravpl dreams? 

Crone: — Had the Senor a dream wrought 
by 
Good spirits, I could ; but of dreams 
Told in thine ear by malcontents 
Of the upper spheres, I know naught. 

S. Reck: — It was a happy dream at 
first. 
With horrors after.; 

Crone:— Thou need 'st not tell it, 
I have it here. Thy dream was first 
Of a fair city and fair scenes. 
That means, thou hast suroundings fair. 
The joys thy dream protrayed were these, 
Thy jovs now enjoyed. 

S. Reck:— Thou art 

In truth aseeress. 



Crone:— I see a change come o'er the 
scene. 
A man of mien terrible, and 
Of Durpose black, hath hurled thee high 
In air, thou falling forever 
To pain and misery. There is 
A hag, who doth this man bring forth. 
She is thy evil star on earth. 
There is above thee a black fate 
Hanging. This man is a mortal. 
I can tell thee no more. 

S. Recklaw: — Goon. 

Conjure again thy troop of devils 
To thee, ana I'll give thee 
Hut of gold. Who is the man? 
Whence does he come? 

Crone:— I can say thee 

No more. The spell is broken. 

S, Recklaw :— Again, again ! Here is thy 
gold. 

Crone:— The spell is broken. 

S. Recklaw:— Broken! Broken! Per- 
chance they'll come 
At night again. Thy sorcery 
Wind up once more, and if thou canst 
Say who he is, I'll make a queen 
Of thee. 

Crone: — Leave me, senor, 'Tis not 
Of me more to impart. 
The spirit's done. 

S. Recklaw:— I'll come again. 

Even if the devil be thy aid, 
Tell me more. Remember, gold ! gold ! 

[Exeu7it. 



ACT III. 



SCENE I.~THE HACIENDA GARDEN. 

Enter slade 
Slade.— This seems the haunt of dreams. 
Never till now one moved my soul ; 
But when I slept last night, visions 
Peopled my slumbers, and 1 saw 
More beauteous things than are read of. 
Enough a'raoet to move me from 



22 



RECKLAW.— A TRAGEDY. 



Mv settled purpose. First I thought 
A fair and stately darue came on 
With face as mild as new-born babe's. 
Who said to me: Love shall o'er hate 
Prevail. She disappeared, and then 
I lived a fleeting age with pure 
And holy thnigs. More good in those 
Too transient hours I knew than in 
The gloomy substaiice of my days. 
I deemed I changed from what 1 was, 
Let fall the black cloak oi the past 
And swore there to begin again, 
And count what was dark guidepost 
For better deeds to come. Yet, as 
I stood thus, shedding Nature's dross, 
A ghost rose up, and, speaking, said : 
I am what was thy wronged sister ; 
Reniember me. Then all the good 
Did fade, and 1 became again 
A dweller in the past. From hence 
No dream can turn the tide. I'll dritt 
Whither the current Revenge may flow. 
Here Alice comes. She is a fond 
And duteous maid, and would a wife 
Make tit for prince. I note she looks 
With tayor on me, and I feel 
A growing love for her move me. 
But this thing love must die; tor I 
Must a dissembler be, and not 
A lover. Such souls as my soul 
Love hotly when alove; but 1, 
Though I should love her with a flame 
Most lurnace hot, would quench it all 
With my revenge. 

Enter Alice, 

Alice: — Good day, sir. 

'Tis a pleasant day. 

Slade:— More pleasant. 

Madam, that you are in it. 

Alice: — You softly speak, as one who has 
Seen the world. Flattery, methinks, 
Is the language of the wide world. 

Slade:— I did speak in truth. What I 
said 
Was that two suns make brighter day 
Than one. Thou'rt the fair daughter 
Of thy father; but thou art, too, 



i A dazzling sun, If fllattery does 
I Find mansion in the truth, then it 
I May dwell in this. 

' A.LICE : — That I am sun and daughter, loo, 
i Does credit to thy wit. But he 

Who into flattery descends 

Ofl'ends good taste. 

Slade: — "lis mootea point 

j If truth be flattery. 

I think thee beautiful and pure 
I And noble, and 1 tell thee of 't. 
j Is that a flattery ? 1 say 
I Tiiou arc more lovely than the rose, 
I Sweeter than cereus and frank 
, As truth is frank. Is 't flattery 
j To tell thee so? 

I Alice: — All's flattery 

In man, which he presents to view 
Of her he courts. Be he not deep. 
His flattery comes in words. Be 
He not novice in the trade of love 
(For love's a trade these days), he tells 
His compliments in his actions. 
1 Think'st thou her pure and worthy, then 
Should'st thou softly tell her so by 
Thy respect; if frank, by being 
: Frank in thy turn; if lovable, 
I By loving her. Yet thinking her 
i Butburface brained and with vain thought. 
Thy words should vain and shallow be 
Proportioned with the object. 

Slade : — This 

, Comes as from an oracle. 

I So, I must be a shallow swain, 

: And I must deem thee vain, knowing 
It not; for I can ne'er repress 
The vain, impeaching words that rise 
To say how like a perfect flower 

i Thou art. 

Alice:— Well, then, be vain, it is 
j A touching failing, after all. 
I Wilt thou come to the house? Thou art 
i As yet a stranger to our home. 

i Slade: — It needeth hut thy bidding, and 
I I'd compass worlds. We'll go. 

1 Exeunt 



RECKLAW. — A TRAGEDY, 



23 



SCENE II.— A ROOM IN THE 
HACIENDA. 

Enter Makia. 

Maria: — I once was where, when I had a 
choice morsel of gossip, I could find hus- 
band-pecking wives to share it wiih. But 
here I must set on it myself and take care 
of the brood of chicks from it alone. Alice 
will not listen to me when 1 tell her of hap- 
penings, and the crone knows them before 
I do, so f must talk to a looking glass and 
fancy in it an auditor. Alice might stay to 
hear what now I'd have to say; but to tell 
her of it would be to spoil this hatching 
brood of devilment. That sailor who once 
swore revenge behind the back of Pedro, is 
in this visitor, and he works his plan of 
vengeance on the master with good speed. 
I know not why he wants revenge; but to 
compass it, he will sweet Alice steal. 80 I 
have heard him tell himself. Now 1 will 
help this working to be worked, and rear- 
ward of the event will sweetly laugh to see 
the master (jf his daughter done. When 
sne has gone to be the stranger's bride, then 
I will plan to follow. Left to his dreams 
the good Senor may have them whipped ; I 
will away where whips do never come. 

Enter Chic 

Chic: — Mucha the old man is disturbed. 

The parrot swear, oh, ever swear; barrasco, 

bad luck is coming. For Chic I care not; 

but on these friends what if bad lUCk should 

fall? Ah, no upon Chic let fall this evil. Let 

hisold head feel the dull stroke, and Chic 

will smile, si, smile at the bad star. 

[Aside 
Oh,senorita; good day. 

Maria: — Good day? No, it's a bad day; 
you pile of humps and ugliness. I wish 
I could swear like your bird, you imp, 
you. I'd make your hair stand. What 
do you come here for? To tell the devil, 
my master, that you would like to build a 
Are under me? Ugh! You homely bag of 
sin, you. 

Chic:— The senorita, is she mad? Ah, 
all goes wrong. The parrot swear; I 



say all will go wrong. Angel mio, sweet 
senorita, what ior is Chic thus cursed? 
Never he did you narm. 

Maria:— Small thanks to you. If you 
were set to't bj^ the master you'd harm me 
fast. Where is your cursing parrot now? 
For why is he not here with you? 

(3hic: — Senorita, the bird is malo. He 
swear and swear; nothing stop him. Last 
night I teach him prayers to say; but 
wnen of holy things he speak, immediate 
he swear, awful. He riddle my prayer 
with oaths. Senorita, I tel[ you sure, bad 
luck is coming. 

Maria:— Of cour'^e, bad luck is coming, 
when Senor Kecklaw has the ghosts to bed 
with him, and has me beat the way he 
does. 

Chic: — The senor ghosts? Senorita, 
how know you that? 

Maria: — I saw one at his bed. But it's 
none of your business. Don't tell any- 
body that I told you of tnis. or I'll — ugh, 
you monster! 

\E.ceunt. 

Chic: — 'Twas the diablo, who as a 
sailor come, and slept in Chic's rancheria. 
I knew it, when he vanish in the night, and 
now he m <ke it all malo. 

\Exit. 

SCENE III.— ANOTHBK ROOM IN 
THE HACIENDA. 

EnterH. Recklaw. 
S. Recklaw:— There now remains no 
doubt, to cloud 
My understanding, and to clog 
The workings of my scheme. Methought 
Her face he wore, and now I know 
'Twas no imaging. The conscience 
Which is quick, no sinecure enjoys, 
But watches ever, and in its midnight 
Mounts descries the menace of 
Portending deeds. Infirm of will, 
And with clothed courage damned, 
'Tis not in me to make his murder 
The second to my ttrst; though now 
That conscience holds his plot to view. 
There is a retribution, which gra.«p8 hands 



24 



RECKLAW. — A TRAGEDY. 



With Fate, and stalks a»harpy, dogging 

Every crime. Age walks not with a limp 

More sure than it shall garner up 

The yield, when time is ripe. 

And so it treads my footprints out. 

Yet he may die, and, dying, leave 

No heir to press his suit. 

Should he depart the stage, perchance 

Ino player of his part would ever cross 

My yisii)n more. Say, then, he's dead. 

'Twere but an oral act. 'Twere as to tell 

The order of a simple feat 

Upon the range. 

And, so, 'twere done, and not a bubble 

Would mark wherein he sank 

Fathoms down that slioreless «ea. 

That order will 1 speak. It must b8 so. 

Eyiter Pedro. 
Pedro, thee I have summoned 
On grave affair. Thy blade needs be 
Sharpened, for thou'lt have use for it. 
Marked thou the stranger who a week 
Has passed my guest? 

Pedro: — Him I have seen. 

S. Recklaw: — He is a hater of thy race, 
And calls thee greaser. Me he threats 
In secret, and the witch tells me 
My death he meditates. If he 
Should be found dead to-morrow morn. 
In some by-way, 'twould seem to be 
A luckj'^ accident. Dost see? 

Pedro: — Men have a way of dying when 
You wish them ill. I wever failed 
My master in such need, did I? 

S. Recklaw:— Thou com'st to time like 
a good clock, 
Pedro, and I prize thy service. 

Pedro: — I nrize thy rude kindness, 
master, 
Above my conscience. Thy command 
Is Pedro's religion. He dies. 

[Exeimt. 

S. Recklaw :— Thou art a good Pedro, as go 
Devils, and as obedient as 
A murderous automaton. I 
Rest assured, he dies to-night. 

\Ezeimt. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE 1.— A ROOM IN THE 
HACIENDA 

Enter Recklaw and two vacqueros. 

IsT V: — Seuor. we come to say that 
Pedro has been found. 

S, Reck:~I heard noi that Pedro had 
been lost; but being found presumes his 
loss. Where was he found ? 

2d V : — In the wood. I tound him. 

1st V: — I found him as we!l. 'Twas I 
that saw the blood first. 

S. Reck:— Blood! Said you blood? • Pe- 
dro's blood? 

1st V:— Si, senor: Pedro was a bloody 
Pedro, and lay as though he fought at 
death as fierce as he was wont to tight at 
the fandango. 

2d V:— A settled hate shone m his star- 
ing eye. and his huge blade was turned i' 
the earth as if he'd found sheath for 't in 
the bowel of some hated gringo. 

1st V:— And the ground torn up showed 
that he struggled hard for the prize of 
living. Some giant from another land 
must o' put out his light. None lived by 
the saddle who could stand up before him. 

S. Reck: — Is the stranger on the ranch? 

1st V: — Senor, the stranger has not 
been seen this day. 

2d V: — And the best two horses of the 
range are absent. 

S. Reck:— Call up the herders! Scour 
the world ! Spare not horseflesh to over- 
take this stranger ! Who brings his head 
to me will be successor to dead Pedro. 
Begone ! 

[Exit Vacqueros. 

Enter Maria. 

Maria:— Maria save us, senor; my mis- 
tress is not tc be found. 

S. Reck:— Say that again. Not to be 
found ? 



RECKLAW. — A TRAGEDY. 



25 



Maria:- She is not in the hacienda, nor 
on the grounds. I've searched for her and 
called on her in vain. 

S. Reck: — Caramba! This is much too 
much. He has done this to me, too. Go, 
suranion the crone to me — the witch — 
bring me the witch. 

[Exit Maria. 

['II know his route and have him quar- 
tered with four lariats. 

\Exit. 

riCENE II.— THE SAME. 

Recklaw and the Crone. 

S. Reck: — I sent for thee. Tell me what 
I ask of thee, or I'll have thee strangled in 
thy den among thy devils. A stranger has 
killed the valiant and reliable Pedro; he 
has stolen my beautiful daughter, and 
what is a sin upon the range as bad, my 
best horses bear him toward safety. Tell 
me his route— where may he be pursued? 

Crone: — The scene is black— but now 
there comes a distant and miniature por- 
trayal of something. Methinks thou 
wouldst know naught of it. 

S. Reck:— But once comes that eternal 
minute in the life of man, which lasts with 
time; and I have known and suffered this. 
I'll view it, though ten perditions. All 
hell were but a scorching flash to what I 
have endured. Speak on. 

Crone:— 1 see a corpse. 

S. Reck: — Well done; it is his bloated 
corpse. Died he hard? 

Crone: — I see a corpse and two graves. 

S. Reck:— Pedro and he fill equal 
graves. 'Tis well. 

Crone:— The corpse I see is of a wom- 
an, a beautiful corpse. 

S. Reck: —Look well at that; deceive 
me oft and your life is forfeit. Did he kill 
her because she would follow him not? 
Oh! if this be so, earth will too small and 
space too shallow be, for him to elude my 
vengeance. Look well at that. 



Crone:— She was thy daughter. Her in- 
sensate form I see within this house and 
thou bendst o'er it distracted. I see a man 
stand by. He is the giant of thy dream. 
Two graves come on again and all is black. 

S. Reck: — Proceed. What else does this 
camera of thy delirium catch? What else, 
I say? 

Crone: — 'Tis darkness all. The spell is 
})ast. 

S. Reck: — Canst thou see no more? 

Crone: — The spell is past. 

S. Reck:— Then get thee hence. Thou 
liest, thou concubine of the devil's. 
Begone ! 

Crone: — 'Tis the spirits that say it. 
Mark it well, senor. 

[Exeunt. 

8. Reck:— It IS a lie! a lie! a black and 
damnaole falsehood! I am a tool to trust 
this hag's drivelings a space. But he must 
be o'ertaken; he must die. 

[Exit. 

SCENE ill.- A PLACE IN THE CITY. 

Alice and Slade conversing. 

Alice;— Thou wouldst not leave me 
thus. Think on it. What would become 
of me (• 

Slade: — To thy father thou mayst re- 
turn. 

Alice:— Oh, this must not be. Hast for- 
gotten what 'twas thou promised when I 
leaned on thy honor? that we came hither 
to awhile escape my father's anger and that 
cooled, I would return thy biidewith thee 
of him. Where now is thy promise? 

Slade:— My promises are buried with 
my conscience— m the sea. I loved ihee 
and 1 love thee now, better than all, that 
breathes; yet 1 will make thee another 
sacrifice upon the altar of my vengeance. 
We part to-night forever. Though I did 
love thee with thrice a mother's fondness 
for her suckling babe, yet thou must be 
abandoned. I've sworn it t3 the ghost of 
her, who was my sister. 



26 



RBCKLAW —A TRAOEDY. 



Alice:— If this must be, God has forgot- I Agaiti. [ will step forth and see what 
ten justice, and man Is more than brutish. | vexps even this tempest. 'T^as sure a 



But I will bear it for thy sake ; for though 
thou wronged me thrice, yet, I would love 
thee more than ever man was loyed before. 
Slade:— So.we part. Go to thy father, 
and teJl him that thus 1 have redeemed a 
sister's broken honor npon him. I go. 
Farfwell ! 

\ Exeunt. 

Alice: — Oh, if thou wert in mercy mild 
as thou an terrible in vengeance, thou 
wouldst be a very god ! 

1 Exeunt 



ACT V. 



moan; what if it be? But it cannot be my 
child. 

{Recklaic opens the do r and steps out into the 

night, returning he has the in animate (.-rm of 

\ his daughter in. his arms, which he lays upon 

the floor.) 

Art ihou Alice? Didst thou speak? Didst 

asK forgivr^iie.ss? Oti. hear me say it, tbnt 

thou'n forgiven. Sj^eak to me ! 8hes;)eaks 

not 1 

(Kisses her.) 

That niouth is cold. Oh, lip.- that now 
i are dumb, sweet voice that speaks no mort- ! 
j Alice art thou dead ? 

; (Drags the body to another room and. returns 
alone.) 

Oh, this cannot be — it cannot be''' Thev 



j say she's dead — bat she cannot thus die. 
SCENEl.— AROOxMINTHKHAClENDA I It cannot be. I knr>w it cannot be. 

(.1 pause.) 



-RECKLAW PACING THE PLOOK. 



But now the dream is past. She 
dead — I knew she was not dead! 



Enter Slade. 
Ah, stranger; welcome. 
Slade: — Dost thou me remember? 



S. Hecklaw :— They find tiim not. He is 
beyond the swiftest of my riders and will 
not be overtaken now. But let him go. I 
tire of blooel, and my soul, like a weary mind 
longs for rest. Rest! Ay; but it cannot | The brother to her that was mv sister 
rest. Oh, Alice! and thou hast furgotfen j I come to tell the.- what followed 
me, too. That is the stab which burns most i In that dream, 
deep. An ingrate child to find in thee, ! 
were as a heart-thrust from my own right ' 
hand. I never deserv«-d the blow from thee. I 
No thorns grew in the garden of thy life. 
my child, or, giowing there, 'twas mine to 
prune them. I'll wait f^r thee to come j 
again and ask forgiveness of thy poor old ' 
father, and when thou comest, these weary 
arms shall fold thee to this stormy breast I '^^'^^ "^^ ^'"^^^ daughter was no more, 
and thou mayst rest upon it as did thy in- ' '^^^ dreams did pinch my ear and yell 
fanthead. But who shall cheer my night 
till then ? 

[A noise without. 

What noise was that that rose above the 
blast— it sounded like a moan— but 'twas my 
fancy. How grows this fever upon me. 
The gloom is spectral with weird shapes and 



not 



I am 



S. Recklaw: — And hast thou, too, had 

dreams. 
Dreams, sir, are the people who dwell in 

sleep. 
Slade:— What, mad? 
S. Recklaw: — I did here dream an hour 

agone 



noises horrible. Can this be madness com- 
ing on? 

[The noise repeated. 



Into my ear, your daughter's dead ! 

Your daughters dead ! ha, ha! And then 

I thougnt i saw her sad, bright eyes 

Forever sealed, and her fond moiath 

Which ever did assure me with 

Its kiss was mute and hushed ; and so 

I cried : It cannot be; 

And woke myself still crying out, 

It cannot be. 

But now the dreams are gone back t^^ 



RE'JKLAW — A TR^aEDY. 



27 



Their habitations in the night. 
And 1 shall never sleap atrain. 

Slade: — Oh, revenge and is this for what 
I courceci thee? 

I llMUght heie now to tell him that 
This was what followed of that dream. 
To saj^ I was a brother to 
That sister wronged 
Who thus made retribution on nim, 
And now he minds me not — he is all mad. j 

S. Keckeaw: — Mad didst thou say ? i 

That is insanity, rather — 
Whatkiiow we of insanity, 
Save that it have extreme and mean? 
We are sane but in a degree; 
For to be sane were to be perfect. 
And sanity's that pole 
Of r.-ason which no man hath reached. 
And if this globe of mind do burst 
What is it but a bubble wrecked. 
There is no tide 

But washes to some shore, and we 
Upon the current of this stream 
Ot time drift on sweet banks or in 
The breakers perish. What matters it? 
The bosom of that oblivion 
Is as the sleep which mantles kings 
With peace and brings to beggars 
Surcease from beggary. 
1 vex tnee with my tales. 
The stars are now apace and 1 
Must my sweet daughter find, for she 
Has wandeied in the night 

[Extient. 

Slade:— I too, will seek the night. Hence- 
forth, all must be night. Oh, vengeance! 
Thou art the bolt which strikes bank on the 
cloud which nurseth thee. 

[Exuent. 

SCENE II.— A MISSION— THE PADRE 
IM THE PORCH. 

Enter S-Recklav,'. 

Priest:— Buenos dias, Senor; it is a fair 
day. 

S. Recklaw: — 'Tis a fair day to him who 
sees fair, but to him who has a clouded eye 
'tis clouded. 



Priest: — Is there aught the church 3an 
do for thee. Senor? 

S. Recklaw:— Aye, is there? My daugh- 
ter wanders in the world. If thou'rt the 
conjurer thou'rt said to be tell me whereon 
sne roams. 

Priest:- I am no conjurer, Senor. I am 
a physician who heals the soul, It thou 
iieed'st srmiethingin this practice my hum- 
ble worth is at your disposal. 

S. Recklaw :— Heel the sole. There is in 
this material for a fool co mold a jest that 
migtit cutlive a holiday. Dost thou tell of 
the future too? 

Priest : — Not in extent but in degree 1 do. 
I'll tell the wayfarer who here delays and 
rests him of his load of sins that his journey 
hence will go the lighter; butthe traveller 
who fares on and carries still his load of sins, 
hi.s travel.- will grow weary. 

tt. Recklaw: — Padre, thou hast spoken 
truth. This sin is an usurer who asks much 
interest. But is thy trade congenial to thy 
purse? 

1:^riest: — I have no purse but my con- 
science, Senor, and that is always empty. 

S. Recklaw:— Then thou art happy. 
Were I moulded again, I'd be a priest. 

Priest: — Thy words are fair. And wilt 
thou not, Senor, give me thy roll of sins. 
I'll hoard them away where th«:>y will draw 
no usury. 

S. Recklaw:— Too late. 'Tis vain in the 
iinlamped night to shade the broken eyes. 
Priest:— 'Tis ne'er too late for this. 

S. Recklaw:— Oh what is this to me. Go 
take my head for a drumhead, and beat a 
deadmarch on it; give my liver to death; 
put niY brain in the stomach of hundred 
worms and tell them to remember by it 
what I o?ice was ; give me ten years of lodg- 
ing without a landlord to call me up for 
the rent of it, then, when I am thinned out 
to naught but joints and bones, make pearl 
jewels of my residue. That's the end of it, 
and it I am a tool in this, why I'm as wise 
as the philosopher who hath a mousoleum 



28 



RECKLAW. — A TRAGEDY. 



and who knows no more. Time will deal 
justice out even in a corpse, and the dainty 
bed o' the rich deadman hath life in it. as 
well's the dirty head o' the live beggar. 

Priest: — Thouspeakest vulgarly on what 
is not profane, Senor. Death is a solemn 
thing, to gaze on which should make us 
pause and contemplate. Thou art the 
crysallis thattaketn wings beyond the grave 
and soaretb forever. The vile words of thy 
tongue in time are stored agair^st thee in 
vault of eternity. 

S. Recklaw:— I'll grant thee that death 
is a solemn thing; but thence on we differ. 
Art thou a chrysahis. thou art a butterfly 
in larva; for whilst thv body crawls a-belly 
toy mina soars like the balloon it is. And 
speaking on this this thing eternity, what 
is thy compass on this voyage of thy 
thought. Thou sailest but by card and 'tis 
a card was made in port. No 'venturer 
hath returned to say of che land what it is, 
where lies its shore, what its shallows and 
its narrows be. To believe but by belief is 
hard on our credences. I grant again 'tis a 
solemn thing to die and driit into eternity 
when we are young, 'Tis as the voyager 
adown the stream afield sailing to the sea, 
and there lose the current and pass, nor ever 
do oar back to happv scenes behind. But 
when all here is dark and the worm has 
gnawed the bud of pleasure, when the scene is 
chill and drear and uaugbt is left to beckon 
us back, then to go adrift, upon this sea of 
death were as embarking on some voyage of 
discovery. We are but men; hope and a 
dream are what we live on, and if we die 
not. why do we die? 

Priest: — Good Senor, thou hast reason 
in thy principles, which is to say thou hast 
no religion. Hast thou no faith thou 
raayst doubt against all authority ; but hav- 
ing faith belief is easy. Thou art now near- 
ing the night and theories with thee are as 
toys of childhood to age. Canst thou be- 
lieve thou canst repair the past — in that 
thou takt^st no chance; but falling to 
this abyss as thou art, and there being ret- 
ribution in it; why then 'tis thine to suffer. 



S. Recklaw ;— Then thou'rt j^ gambler in 
facts. Say you, if i bet against the judg- 
ment day. and lose, I pay the forfeit; but 
betting upon the event and losing I nothing 
lose. Thy philosc-phy hath a moral to it. 

Priest: — I hou art a man that's fated. It 
is not sad that ihe body perish; but when a 
I soul IS lost, then angels weep. 

S, Recklaw: — So, ht the angels ween. 
I That they can weep proves that I could be 
! no angel, for 1 could not weep, were single 
tears the price of heaven. Good friend thou 
! hast no conception ot hell. Of that I could 
j tell many a tale for i dwelt there these sev- 
eral years. Thy heaven I know nniight of. 
' But of this I say: If there is a sea beyond 
I the grave I am bound to its calm waters. 

Enter \ ACQVEno. 

I Vacquero:— Master I have come to ask 

I thee home; fi»r all is at wrong ends by the 

j hacienda. Here is thy horse. Jingo, the 

cook, and Maria are gone together, and the 

herders are at drunkt n reveis. 

S. Recklaw: — At drunken revels Jet them 
stay. The world's a drunken revel which 
begins in night and ends in night. But I 
will go with thee to seek my daughter for I 
fear she cannot find the way. Padre fare- 
well. 

[Exuent 

i SCEN E II— THE GRAVE OF A l.ICE. 

i 

! Slade:— That I have loved that which I 

j have destroyed and have destroyed that 

! which I loved, d- es balance in the 

scale of mv remorse, but nothing irom its 

I sum removes. 1 loved thee living, and I 

I killed thee with my love; yet though my 

love was thus enough to slay such beauty 

in its spring, 'twas but the acorn ot an oak 

j of love whose roots now pierce thy grave. 

And thou art dead ? then music's soul is 

flown. And thour't not here, beauty can 

be no more. Thou wert the light of day 

and didst the night with thy sweet ra- 

1 diance tincture. When sang the oriole, 

j then 'twas to thee he tuned his fluted 

I throat, for thee the mocking bird did scale 



REOKLAVr — A TBAQEDY. 



29 



the woodland gamut. Now hushed the 
wood shall be, the singing rilla their tunes 
shall change to threne, and the wide-arch- 
ing day who saw thee in thy freshness 
methinks shall veil his e5'^e in sorrow. 
And me — there is no time, nor day, nor 
night for what 1 was. 1 am myself no 
more; but as a shadow cast by the depart- 
ing form ot fate, I mark a space, anon I'll 
be obliterated and agone. Oh, thou celestial 
spirit, Alice, hear me— list me say I did to 
thee a wrong unthinking on the end. If 
thou canst speak and I canst hear, say not 
that I'm forgiven ; but that thou'rt gone to 
better scenes. Say thou hast suffered not 
for what was all my fault, and then I'll close 
this night of mine in peace. She speaks 
not and the mocking breeze, whispers i?ome 
unknown Uionody. Not even in madness 
can I seem to hear reply tt) my voiced 
agony. 

E7itcr Chic. 
Ah, what was that, a whisper. Didst whis- 
per? Was it a voice from that un wave- 
lapped shore whereon thou wandrest? 
8peak of it again— say what thou art — any- 
thing so that it be not silence. Speak, oh 
ypeak! 

{Chic, from behind, stabs Slade, ivho dies.) 

Enter Recklaw. 

S. Kecklaw:— Sir, it is a soft and lovely 
night. Hast thou my daughtkT seen pas» 
by this way? She was as the diamond bril- 
liant and beautiful as the sapphire ; her 
hair was the ocean's amber and her eyes 
were formed of the essence of erlorious 
stars. Hast thou seen her pass? 

Chic: — Oh, good Senor — dost thou not 
know me? Hast thou Chic forgotten, mas- 
ter, thy saddle-tree maker, Chic ? 

S. Recklaw.— True, I remember thee. 
Thou wert the king ere i was born. Good 
king, hast thou my daughter iseen? 



Chic— He's mad. He's mad, and I did 
love the master, as I love him yet. Male- 
dictions on his sodl that caused this to be. 
But I have my revenge. Master we are 
avenged. 

S. Recklaw:— Revenge? Say you re- 
venge? (Jut with that word. Tis traced 
in blood across the night; 'tis writ upon 
the gate of hell. Say not revenge, which, 
as the fire that burns the what it feeds on, 
leaves but ashes. Oh, out with it. 

Chic: — Tis oyer now. 1 have his blood. 
I have him killed. He sleeps, senor, he 
sleeps. 

S. Kecklaw:— What hast thou on thy 
hand, that's red. 

Chic: — Knife, master, I killed him thus. 
S. Recklaw:— Let me gaze on it. 

(Takes the knife. 
This stain upon it; what is this? 
Chic •— His blood it is. Pity but he could 
bleed on it again. 

S. Rkcklaav:— It is his blood? Then the 
precious fluid of my veins I'll mix with 
hi.s uDon its blade. We'll to another night. 
(Stabs himself and dies.) 
Enter Several Vacqueeos. 
1st V. : — Passed the senor here? He has 
escaped our vigil and we thought he'd 
wander to his daughter's grave, 

2d V. :—( Discovering the dead) Soft, 
friends. 1 1 seems the master sleeps, 

(Laying his hand upon his heart.) 
The pump that worked his heart is broke. 
He\" deaa. 

Chic: — Si, the master sleeps, and even 
he said not good night to Chic. But Chic 
will say to hitn good night. So, sweet 
master, good night, buenoa noches, adios. 
( The scene closes with Chic bending over the dead 
body of Recklaw, thevacqutros silently stand- 
ing around ) 



THE END. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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